not hear. I had stood waiting death against the citadel
wall, with the chance of a reprieve hanging between uplifted muskets
and my breast; but that suspense was less than this, for I saw him, not
moving, but standing there waiting for her, the warmth of his devilish
eloquence about him, and she moving toward him.

"My darling," I heard him say, "come, till death...us do part, and let
no man put asunder."

She paused, and, waking from the dream, drew herself together, as though
something at her breast hurt her, and she repeated his words like one
dazed--"Let no man put asunder!"

With a look that told of her great struggle, she moved to a shrine of
the Virgin in the corner, and, clasping her hands before her breast
for a moment, said something I could not hear, before she turned to
Doltaire, who had now taken another step towards her. By his look I
knew that he felt his spell was broken; that his auspicious moment had
passed; that now, if he won her, it must be by harsh means.

For she said: "Monsieur Doltaire, you have defeated yourself. 'Let no
man put asunder' was my response to my husband's 'Whom God hath joined,'
when last I met him face to face. Nothing can alter that while he lives,
nor yet when he dies, for I have had such a sorrowful happiness in
him that if I were sure he were dead I would never leave this holy
place--never. But he lives, and I will keep my vow. Holy Church has
parted us, but yet we are not parted. You say that to think of him now
is wrong, reflects upon me. I tell you, monsieur, that if it were a
wrong a thousand times greater I would do it. To me there can be no
shame in following till I die the man who took me honourably for his
wife."

He made an impatient gesture and smiled ironically.

"Oh, I care not what you say or think," she went on. "I know not of
things canonical and legal; the way that I was married to him is valid
in his country and for his people. Bad Catholic you call me, alas! But
I am a true wife, who, if she sinned, sinned not knowingly, and deserves
not this tyranny and shame."

"You are possessed with a sad infatuation," he replied persuasively.
"You are not the first who has suffered so. It will pass, and leave you
sane--leave you to me. For you are mine; what you felt a moment ago you
will feel again, when this romantic martyrdom of yours has wearied you."

"Monsieur Doltaire," she said, with a successful effort at calmness,
though I could see her trembling too,